


The Time It Wasn't Bigfoot

by moony



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 17:31:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moony/pseuds/moony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"From: Angst Vandersulk</p><p>Ceramics factory. 11:00. Don’t fuck up and get followed."</p><p>(Stiles's first kiss happens for what Derek believes is the wrong reason. Also, there might be a Bigfoot. Maybe.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Time It Wasn't Bigfoot

**_From: Angst Vandersulk  
Ceramics factory. 11:00. Don't fuck up and get followed._**

Good ol' Derek. Always so reassuring. Stiles sighs and dumps everything out of his backpack, replacing his chemistry textbook and One Direction pencil case (fucking Scott and his fucking stupid birthday presents and Stiles's fucking _loyalty_ ) with a flashlight, a pocket knife, and the night-vision goggles he got from Amazon two Black Fridays ago. He texts Scott to let him know that he's "coming over to study," which is their code for "please lie to my parent(s) so I can engage in subterfuge/sexy times."

(Why Stiles is always with the subterfuge and never with the sexy times is a question he has been asking himself for years.)

Stiles parks the Jeep a few blocks away from the factory and keeps to the alleys and side-streets. There's a light snow falling but it's not sticking, so he doesn't have to cover his tracks. The Sheriff isn't out tonight but he may as well be; every cop in Beacon Hills knows that if they see Stiles out after his curfew (and his curfew is written on a sticky-note above the timeclock at the station) and they don't report him the Sheriff will have them processing parking tickets for a month. It's totally unfair, but Stiles has become very good at avoiding detection (which he doubts is what his dad's aiming for with his Draconian ten/eleven on weekends rule). Stiles is a ghost, a mist, a fog, and by 10:58 he's made it to the factory undetected.

The ceramics factory is a huge, hulking structure that's been a distinct feature of the Beacon Hills so-called skyline since the latter part of the California Gold Rush. By day it's an active factory, churning out pipes and floor tiles and whatever else they make out of the clay that they pull from the nearby hills. To Stiles it's always looked like it ought to be the setting for a Saw movie, or featured on one of those ghost-hunter reality shows that his dad likes. Most of the windows are broken out, and the building leans to one side, like it's completely exhausted from standing up for a hundred-and-fifty years. There's nothing that isn't creepy about this place, so Stiles is not surprised at all that Derek summoned him here. Derek _loves_ creepy. If creepy could make informed legal decisions Derek would probably marry it.

Derek finds him first, of course, dropping down from the fucking sky. Because Derek thinks he's some kind of goddamn _bat_.

"Not a bat," says Derek, because when Stiles is startled he tends to vomit his thoughts (it's better than actual vomit, at least). "Werewolf."

"I wish you'd trigger-warn before you do that." Stiles swallows hard and tries to remember how to breathe properly. He gives Derek a dirty look. "I'm pretty sure you just added significantly to my rotation of nightmares. Why am I here?"

"I need a second set of eyes," says Derek. He points to the north side of the building and starts walking that way, slowly and quietly. "Two nights ago, I heard on the police scanner that someone reported a break-in at the factory. They found scraps of dead animals inside. Sounded weird, so I checked it out."

"Could just be a bear," says Stiles, following close behind. "Dad said there's been a lot of bears this year. Scott even had one in his backyard, remember?" That had been YouTube worthy. He'd called Stiles in a panic, babbling about Bigfoot eating his mom's tomato plants, his voice growing more shrill by the second until Stiles reminded him that _you're a fucking werewolf, you idiot_ and to go bark at the thing and it'd go away.

Derek shakes his head. "No," he says. "Smell's all wrong. I can't tell what it is, though. It's sort of human," He lifts his chin and takes a few short breaths, and frowns. "But there's also decay. Whatever it is, it's dying."

Stiles shivers. "So why do you need me, here?" he asks. "Follow your nose. It always knows." He grins.

"I told you, another set of eyes." Derek says. "And you... know a lot. Might need that, too."

"What?" Stiles perks up, smirking. "Are you admitting that I'm the brains of this outfit?" Derek just looks at him. Stiles sighs. "Fine. Okay, you're right. I'm a nerd about this stuff in a way everyone else isn't because everyone else can get _dates_."

Derek snorts and crouches down to peer around the corner of a building, looking toward the mouth of the main part of the factory. "Bingo."

"Great," says Stiles. "Just the legacy I've always wanted. The wise and the forever alone." He shuffles closer to Derek and pulls his night-vision goggles out of his bag, flipping them on and bringing them up to his eyes. "I guess if it's not a bear," he continues, "or completely human, it's a good idea to have the human Internets nearby for easy Googling. Just try not to Google me too hard, okay?" Stiles makes a face, even though Derek can't see him. "Be gentle. I'm fragile."

Derek grunts. It reminds Stiles of a grumpy piglet. He glances over to where Derek is poised to leap forward or fall back at a moment's notice, his eyes flinty in the dim light of the street lamps. "You know, I don't even know what you're talking about, half the time," he says. "It's like you're just saying words just to hear them. They don't even have to go together."

"Says Heathcliff-on-the-moors," says Stiles. "I'm sorry you have to miss your nightly brooding session for a stakeout. I hope it doesn't cut into your morning sulk- Ow."

Stiles rubs his ear. Derek's claws are just stupid. And sharp. He's not bleeding, but he could be, dammit.

"Quiet," says Derek. "I need to focus and you just _keep chattering_."

"Fine. Focus away. Like a focusing... thing."

It's difficult, but Stiles manages to stay quiet for a while. He starts playing Mario Kart in his head, which is also how he manages not to stroke out during timed tests. He keeps an eye on Derek's expression though, because he learned a long time ago that Derek has pretty good reflexes that there's no alarm system better than a paranoid werewolf. He does this pinched, twisty thing with his mouth that is as good as a disaster siren going off, so Stiles knows to keep an eye on that.

Not that it's much of a hardship to stare at Derek's mouth, or Derek.

And that's _not_ a big deal. It's not a problem, his thing for Derek, and it's definitely not something he's ever going to do anything about, ever. That way lies madness. It's just a fact of Stiles's ridiculous existence that a werewolf with PTSD can inspire in him a great deal of boners. He knows it goes a lot deeper than that, that Derek isn't just an express bus to Bonertown, but Stiles refuses to analyze it too closely. Which means, of course, that he does sometimes analyze it, and he comes to the conclusion that he just ain't right in the head.

 _Nothing_ is ever easy for Stiles. His next infatuation will probably be the fucking Loch Ness Monster, or Satan - or _Jackson_ , goddammit.

After about an hour of waiting and listening and (for Derek) sniffing the air, they slowly creep closer to the main building so that Derek can better parse the chatter of mice and hum of roosting pigeons. "There's definitely something in there," he murmurs in Stiles's ear. "I can hear its heartbeat. Doesn't smell like a bear, or any other kind of animal I've ever seen, but it's big. Bigger than a human."

"Maybe Scott was right," says Stiles in an excited whisper. "Maybe there really is a Bigfoot."

"There's no such thing as Bigfoot!" says Derek. "Stop calling it _Bigfoot_! It's just- It's a thing."

Stiles makes a face. "A thing, great. Very descriptive."

"If I can't see it, I can't tell you what it is, can I?" Derek's already scant patience is clearly starting to wear thin.

"Then we have to go in," says Stiles. "And actually get a look at it."

"Yeah." Derek sounds annoyed and resigned. "Alright. Fine. But I go first."

"By all means," says Stiles, with an elaborate bow. "Lead the way, Balto."

They find a door, properly shut with a thick chain and a padlock. "And here I forgot my lock-picking tools," Stiles sighs, poking the lock with the tip of a finger. "Oh, wait. Dad won't let me have any, despite my _many_ letters to Santa on the subject."

Stiles hears behind him the cracking of knuckles. When he looks, Derek is smirking at him.

"I brought mine," he says, holding up his hand, wiggling his claws.

Stiles rolls his eyes so hard he's surprise they don't fall out of his face and skitter away.

"Do you, like, just wait for openings where you can use lines like that?" he asks, watching as Derek starts picking at the padlock with his talons. "Do you pretend you're John McClane? Because seriously, no one says that shit in real life-"

Derek jerks his head up, eyes glinting scarlet, and one hand reaches out and catches Stiles's arm. Stiles squeaks and twitches. "Okay, sorry. Yippee-ki-yay motherfu-"

"Shut up," says Derek, and Stiles shuts up, because he knows the difference between annoyed-Derek and serious-business-Derek. Derek turns his head and sniffs at the air. "Someone's coming," he says. "Patrol car."

Stiles's stomach churns. "Oh, crap," he says. "It's not-"

"It's not your dad's," says Derek. "Different, newer. The driver is female and a smoker. We have about thirty seconds before she turns the corner."

"Oh shit," says Stiles, running a hand over his hair. "Oh my God." He must look as freaked out as he feels, because Derek is giving him a look halfway between concern and confusion. If he tilted his head, he'd look exactly like a befuddled Labrador Retriever. Under better circumstances, Stiles might be taken with how adorable that is, but not right now.

Right now, he has to freak the fuck out.

Derek frowns more and squeezes his arm, but not painfully. "Stiles, it's-"

"It's _not_ okay!" Stiles snaps. "Do you _know_ what this looks like? We're _breaking-and-entering_. I mean, what _else_ could we be doing out here? Shit, oh shit. I can't get caught breaking-and-entering, Derek. I'm not a kid anymore. That's the kind of thing that gets you an actual police record, and it's election year. My dad..." He looks over at the flash of headlights from a car turning toward them. "I am so fucked."

Stiles stares down at his shaking hands, trying to think. He can feel Derek staring at him, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care that his eyes are watering and his throat's tightening up. He's about to get arrested. He's about to get in the most trouble he's ever been in. He's about to cost his dad his job - again.

And then he's being pulled around and gently manhandled up against the door, Derek's entire body pressed along his own. Stiles blinks at him, and for the first time realizes that somewhere along the way, Stiles has grown just a hair taller than Derek. They're eye to eye, Stiles's wide open, Derek's bright and intense. "What-"

"You trust me?" says Derek, in a voice that's more rumble than anything.

Stiles nods. "Yeah," he says. He's surprised by the truth of it, and from the way Derek's stoic expression falters, so is he. "Yeah, I trust you."

Derek swallows audibly. "Okay," he says, and Stiles braces himself for whatever Derek's got planned. He doesn't expect the cold press of chapped lips against his own. Stiles goes completely still, hands clutching at Derek's sleeves, a noise of surprise stuck in his throat.

"C'mon," murmurs Derek, his mouth dragging against Stiles's. A hand comes up to curl around the back of Stiles's neck. "Just play along."

_Oh._

It takes Stiles a second to rally his nerves before he parts his lips and licks out, tentatively. He's rewarded with the slick sweep of a wet tongue in his mouth, sliding against his own.

This is Stiles's first kiss.

He's seen a lot of kissing. Stiles has a not-so-secret addiction to romantic comedies; he's seen the kiss at the end of When Harry Met Sally at least fifty-seven times. Scott likes to give him shit about it, but what Scott doesn't know is that Stiles and his mother would watch them together in Stiles's parents' bed, his mother curled around her post-chemo bucket, Stiles passing her ice chips from a Star Wars glass. Their favorite movie kiss is (was) the kiss at the end of The Princess Bride, though the upside-down Spiderman kiss ranks pretty high up there, too. Stiles has seen a lot of great kisses.

This one leaves them all behind.

Stiles makes a noise he ought to be embarrassed by, but he's too busy hauling Derek closer, fingers clutching at the shoulders of that stupid leather jacket. Derek's mouth is hot and wet and awesome, the way Stiles had always imagined it to be in the middle of the night and during long, hot showers. He licks at Derek's tongue, and that is _super_ -awesome, and there are big, wolfy hands at his hips, and a flashlight in his eyes.

"'Evening, boys."

Derek backs off and Stiles slides to the ground. He looks up and squints.

"Val?"

The police officer raises an eyebrow at him. Stiles clears his throat.

"Sorry," he says. "Officer Dominguez."

"Bit late for you to be out, isn't it, Stiles?" she asks. She lowers the flashlight as Derek reaches down and grips Stiles by the elbow, hauling him to his feet.

"Yeah, uh..." Stiles tries to think quickly, but all the blood has rushed south and he's having a hard time thinking outside his pants. "Well, see - it's like this-"

"It's my fault," says Derek quickly. He gives Officer Dominguez a shy smile and Stiles's elbow a squeeze. It probably looks affectionate to her, but it feels like a warning to shut the fuck up to Stiles, so he does. "It's just- we're not, y'know." Derek coughs and runs his free hand through his hair, ducks his head and looks at Officer Dominguez through his eyelashes. "He's not ready to come out, you know. To his dad. So this is our, uh." Derek actually giggles, and Stiles wonders if this is what the Mayans were talking about all along. "This is our goodnight-kiss spot."

Officer Dominguez gives Derek a long, hard look, the same look she'd had when she was sixteen and working after school as Stiles's babysitter. It was the look she'd always given him when she knew he'd done something heinous and was trying to weasel out of it - which he'd never managed to do, not with her.

He's not surprised she's a cop now, honestly.

Stiles opens his mouth to say something that will likely not be helpful at all, because he can't stand the tension, but Derek catches one of his hands and grips it tight. He brings it up to his mouth and presses his lips to Stiles's knuckles. It's so natural, so fluid, and so startling that Stiles shuts his mouth, and squeezes Derek's hand instead.

"Not exactly romantic," says Officer Dominguez. She's still eyeing Derek, and her hand is on her radio. Stiles's heart beats so hard it hurts. "And Stiles is not exactly legal."

Derek nods. "I know," he says, and he sighs dejectedly. "I just- he's going away to college soon and I... I just wanted some time together before he leaves. You know?" Derek swallows audibly. "I'm going to have to get used to being alone, again."

And Officer Dominguez's expression just _collapses_. Of _course_ it does. Because everyone in Beacon Hills remembers the Hale fire. It'd happened on a windy morning in May, when the fire danger rating was somewhere between ' _Welcome to Purgatory_ ' and ' _Surface of the Sun_ ,' and so everyone freaked the fuck out because what starts out as a house fire can easily lead to the destruction of the entire Sierra Nevada. Fire safety is serious fucking business in California.

"I knew your sister," says Officer Dominguez. "Laura. She sat in front of me in Econ." She shakes her head, gives Derek a look. "And weren't you in band?"

Derek winces and nods. "You played flute, I think?"

"Band?" Stiles looks at Derek. "You never told me you were in band."

Dominguez smiles a little. "He played tuba," she says, and it is fucking _Christmas_ for Stiles. "Okay, look, I really- I should report this. I'm supposed to." She looks at Stiles, and he knows she's thinking about stacks and stacks of parking tickets. "But... if you guys go home right now, and I mean _straight_ _home_ , I won't say anything."

Stiles nearly falls down again in relief. "Oh my God, tha-"

"But." Dominguez hefts her flashlight and sticks it back into her belt. "If I catch you out here again, I _will_ tell the Sheriff, and I think you've both had enough trouble with the law for one lifetime, right?"

"Yes, ma'am" says Derek. He grips Stiles's hand tightly. "I'll get him home safe."

"You do that." Dominguez gives them both the stink-eye one more time, though Stiles can see her expression soften when she looks at Derek. "Don't make me regret being a sap, okay?"

Derek nods. "Have a safe night," he says. He tugs on Stiles's hand. "C'mon, babe."

"You were always my favorite babysitter!" Stiles calls out as he climbs into the Jeep.

"Goodnight, Stiles," says Dominguez, getting back into her cruiser.

As soon as they're on the road, Stiles thumps the steering wheel and barks a laugh. "That was awesome," he says. "Do you think they sell Oscars on eBay, because I will totally buy you one for Christmas. You should start writing your acceptance speech now." He looks over at Derek, slouched in the passenger seat. "Seriously. That was inspired."

"It worked, didn't it?" Derek rolls down the window. "Head north. That thing took off when she showed up, but I can probably still track it."

"No way," says Stiles. "She told us to go home, so we're going home. At least _I_ am going home. You can chase after Bigfoot from there."

"Stiles-"

"Do you want to hear my thoughts on the revelation that you were once a band geek?"

Derek is quiet.

"I didn't think so." He points the Jeep toward home. They fall silent, Stiles watching the road and Derek poking his head out the window, sniffing at the air. "So," says Stiles, because he can't stand a silence, "thanks. For that."

"S'no big deal," says Derek, so low his voice is almost lost to the growl of the Jeep engine.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Don't even," he says. "You don't even know. It's one thing to get a restraining order on you but if Val had caught me doing a B&E, I would've been totally fucked. Juvie, or house arrest. My dad would never forgive me."

He glances at Derek to find him looking back, expression unreadable. It's disconcerting at best, but little cold fingers dance down Stiles's spine at the sight of all that wild focus aimed at directly him. "I'm not going to let you get arrested," says Derek. "Especially when I ask you for help."

"I'm getting that," says Stiles. "Also, you sort of killed two birds with one stone, so thanks for that, too." He feels his cheeks burn a little; sometimes, he wishes he had a goddamn filter between his brain and his mouth. He's always been just a little _too_ honest about stuff.

Derek frowns, confused. "What are you talking about?" he asks.

Stiles laughs a little, trying for nonchalant but only succeeding at sounding a little deranged. "I mean, you know." He signals for a left turn and takes it a little too quickly. Yay, four-wheel-drive. "I don't have to put 'never been kissed' on my tombstone, now. That's all." His face feels so hot he must look like a tomato by now. "I have to admit, it's been a real concern of mine considering all the death-defying we like to do, these days."

When Stiles looks at Derek again, he's surprised to see disbelief. He'd even go so far as to say Derek's face looks shocked; his eyes are wider, his lips parted slightly. He's looking at Stiles as though he's never seen him before. It's really weird.

"Derek?" asks Stiles. "You okay?"

Stiles's voice seems to snap Derek out of it, and his mouth shuts and his jaw clenches and he turns to look through the windshield without seeing.

"Stop the car," says Derek. His voice is low, even, and dangerous.

"What?"

"I said pull over."

Stiles blinks, then frowns. "Dude-"

" _Now_." Derek's voice takes on the unearthly timbre of the supernatural, a low, rolling thunder that settles in Stiles's chest and makes his heart stutter. He says nothing, signaling and pulling the Jeep into the first turn-off he sees. Derek's out of the Jeep before Stiles has a chance to put it in PARK.

"Hey!" Stiles cuts the engine and scrambles out, stumbling after Derek, who has started walking in the direction they'd been driving. "What the hell, dude?"

"Go home, Stiles," says Derek. His hands are jammed into his jacket pockets and he's hunched against the wind. The snow is coming down in earnest, now. "I can do this without you."

"I'm sure you can," says Stiles, "but let's talk about how you're the one who called me out in the first place?"

"Just go home."

"No!" Stiles snaps, grabbing Derek's arm and pulling until he stops, turning toward him. "What's your problem!? What the hell- What the hell?!"

Derek looks at Stiles's hand on his arm, then up at Stiles. "You didn't tell me that was your _first kiss_."

Stiles stares at him. "It... wasn't important? You didn't ask? I didn't think it was relevant because we were trying not to get arrested, which would be so much worse than just not having kissed somebody before." He makes a face. "Priorities? I has them?"

"No." Derek shakes his head and takes a step back, freeing himself from Stiles's grip. "No, you- You should have said something. I wouldn't have..." Derek seems to run out of  words, here, and he waves a hand around ineffectively. "I wouldn't have," he says.

"And we'd be in the back of a cruiser right now!" says Stiles, throwing his arms in the air. "Why is this a big deal?!"

"It should be a big deal!" Derek's ears look a little pointy, but Stiles doesn't move away. He just stares until Derek's shoulder slump and he looks away. "Your first kiss should be a big deal, Stiles. It's important."

"Not to me," says Stiles. "Seriously. It's okay, dude."

"No, it's _not_." Derek surges forward, face so close to Stiles's that Stiles can see the the spidery shards of gold in his irises. "It's _not_ okay. You should have had a _choice_." He steps back, runs a hand through his hair and scattering the snow that has settled there. "You should've kissed someone you actually _want_ to kiss. Somebody without ulterior motives." Derek looks disgusted with himself. "Noble or otherwise."

"Hey..." Stiles swallows hard. "Derek, it's- It's fine, man. I'm not upset or anything."

Derek just looks at him. His eyes seem old, and tired. "You should be," he says quietly. "I took something from you, and I'm sorry." He turns away. "Go home, Stiles."

As Derek starts trudging off into the snow again, Stiles's mind starts to thrum like a beehive. Everyone who knows Derek knows there's some kind of epic backstory going on with him, and it doesn't take a genius - or even an ADHD-addled teenager - to put the pieces of the puzzle together: somewhere along the line Derek got seriously burned (and isn't that an unfortunate metaphor for whatever happened to him?). Stiles doesn't know the gory details and he's pretty sure he doesn't want to know, but he also wants nothing more than to do something about the hunted bend to Derek's shoulders, the way he moves like the walking wounded.

"Hey." He scampers after Derek, clamps a hand on his shoulder. When Derek turns, Stiles is already meeting him halfway, stepping up into his personal space and pressing a kiss to Derek's mouth. It's inelegant, lopsided and a little too wet, but it's still a kiss.

Derek doesn't kiss back, but he doesn't move either. When Stiles pulls away Derek is gaping at him, lips parted and a little pink. Stiles licks his own, and smiles.

"That's the first time _I've_ ever kissed anybody," he says. "I chose _you_. Deal with it." Stiles takes a step back, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I meant what I said," he says. "I'm not upset. I don't regret that you were the first one. I'm glad it was you. Those are some pretty good bragging rights."

He grins, turns and starts walking back to the Jeep. He doesn't know what Derek's doing but he refuses to look back, just keeps his head down against the wind until he reaches his car. He fumbles in his pockets for his keys as he opens the door and gets in.

"Stiles."

"Oh my God." Stiles whacks his knee against the bottom of the steering wheel. Despite the pain, he looks over at Derek, perched in the passenger seat.

"What the fuck," says Stiles. He rubs his kneecap. "You fucking _owl_."

"Why."

"Because their wings make no sound when they-"

"Stiles," says Derek, and his voice shivers with wolfish potential. He looks intense. Or constipated. " _Why_."

There are a lot of ways Stiles could answer that, but for once he chooses in favor of brevity.

"Why not?" he says. Derek stares. Stiles shrugs. "Seriously. Why _not_? I trust you, you seem to trust me. That's a pretty good start, don't you think?"

Derek doesn't respond. Instead, he lifts his hand and runs two fingers alongside Stiles's jawline. The way Derek regards him, Stiles feels like a scent that has no definition, no correlation inside Derek's wolfy brain. Stiles is something new, something to learn. No one has ever looked at Stiles like this, before.

It's kind of nice, and Derek's fingers are warm.

Stiles reaches up and catches Derek's hand in his own. He closes his eyes and presses Derek's palm against his cheek. They stay like that for just a moment before Stiles lets go and jams his key into the ignition. The Jeep roars to life.

"We still need to track down Bigfoot," says Stiles, shifting the Jeep into reverse and backing out of the factory lot.

Derek watches him for another few seconds, then shakes his head and sighs. "It's _not Bigfoot_ ," he insists. "But yeah, we do. Take 49 - I think he's headed for the Yuba."

"Then to the Yuba we go," says Stiles. He points the Jeep north. "I hear it's trout season."

(It turns out that it is Bigfoot, and when Stiles comes to after being chucked into the icy river, he is very smug about it. Soggy, and pretty sure there's a fish in his pants, but still very, very smug.)

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr and Twitter as annathaema/annathaemah.
> 
> Thank you to L. for the formatting fix. I have the flu and thus I lack the wherewithal to do more than lay about snorting like a congested yak.


End file.
